


Ain't gonna find no miracles here

by leigh57



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s never been with someone who wants to learn her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't gonna find no miracles here

**Author's Note:**

> So this story should really be called "Five things that surprise Carol about being in a relationship with Daryl," but that sounded super long and clunky to me, so I didn't call it that. Good story, yeah?
> 
> This fic started out as a slightly tweaked prompt from a lovely anon, but since I _always_ use song lyrics as motivation, I’m also using it as my submission to the [USS Caryl fanfiction/fanart challenge.](http://uss-caryl.tumblr.com/post/66879297781/it-is-wednesday-my-loves-do-you-know-what-that-means)
> 
> The lyrics that got me started were the following, from “We Remain,” by Christina Aguilera:
> 
> “So burn me with fire / drown me with rain / I’m gonna wake up / screaming your name”
> 
> However, the lyrics that really wind in and out of everything I wrote here are these, from “The Story,” by Brandi Carlile:
> 
> “Because even when I was flat broke / you made me feel like a million bucks, you do”
> 
> The title is taken from "Human Touch," by Bruce Springsteen. On the off chance you don't know this song, I can only urge you to remedy that;)
> 
> Giant thanks to adrenalin211 for the beta and all the encouragement. And a general huge shoutout/lovefest/group hug to all the Carol/Caryl lovers out there who are hurting and cursing and screaming and raging through this storyline with me. You guys are the best.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

1.

**He stops smoking.**

Well, not completely, not like a declaration or a vow or anything.

He'll grab a pack to throw in the car if he's headed out on a long run, but when he's at the prison, he doesn't light up anymore, not even when he pulls a double watch or spends hours digging in the blistering afternoon sunlight to fortify the fence.

At first, when she notices an unopened pack tossed on the tiny table in the corner of their cell, neglected, she figures he's just busy, that he'll pick them up later.

But days go by and it's still sitting there, light reflecting off the smooth plastic wrap and the green and white logo that reminds her of standing in line at 7-11, an arm full of crappy snacks and a mind full of hope that the cashier would be slow so she'd have an excuse not to go home yet.

One afternoon, when she's chopping onions to put in the venison meatloaf (she's excited about this one, because Michonne came back from the last run with half a case of Cajun spices, and she's been dying to try them), he strolls by (quick finger down the back of her arm as a hello), flips a chair around, and drops down next to Mr. Jensen, a quiet, adorable seventy-something former accountant who really misses his wife, his dog, and his two pack a day habit.

"'S'up, Mr. J?" Daryl digs into the pocket of his filthy, sweat-stained shirt, pulls out the pack, and drops it on the table with a soft thud. "Brought these for you. Know they're not your brand, but it's better than nothin', right?"

Carol's hand pauses on the smooth wood of the knife's handle, a sharp ache spreading through her chest as she watches the huge, genuine grin that transforms Mr. Jensen's face. "That's kind of ya, Daryl," he says, but he doesn't put his hand out for the pack. "You're sure you don't want 'em?"

Daryl shakes his head, his body already up and angled to move in the other direction. "Nah. An' we'll find s'more the next time we head out."

Mr. Jensen's hand closes over the pack, the tiny tremor in his fingers crinkling the wrapper. "Well, I'll be takin' these outside so as not to be near the kids. Thanks again."

Daryl nods and watches the older man move toward the door before he turns and walks over to Carol, stopping with a lot less distance between them than he would have left even a couple weeks ago. "Damn, that smells good." He grabs a carrot strip from the pile next to her and sticks it in his mouth.

She glances up at him, curious. "Why'd you quit all of the sudden?"

His face pinks, but he surprises the hell out of her by not dropping his gaze with the pitch of his voice when he mutters, "Don't want you to have to taste that."

Her own face is warm, and she can't fight the smile that shapes her words. "I wouldn't mind. At _all_ , actually."

He sneaks a handful of snap peas and leans closer. "Tradeoff's worth it," he whispers. He holds her gaze just long enough for her to soak in the spark that makes his current expression simultaneously adorable and scorching.

She feels three degrees too hot for the rest of the day, mixing meatloaf while her mind drifts forward to later, to the part where he clicks the lock and drops the sheet, the part where she feels the callouses on his fingers brushing over her ribs as he peels away her tank top, the last layer to go before his skin takes its place.

2.

**He knows even less about good sex than she does.**

(She didn’t really think this was possible, and yet.)

The first few times it happens, they somehow make it work on a fuel-injected mixture of lust, hormones, and pure enthusiasm.

The composite cocktail of feelings that finally puts them naked next to each other has been mixing for years, so it’s not shocking that, even though it takes maybe seven minutes, start to finish, she shuts her eyes for a few seconds when it’s over and realizes while she’s trying to breathe that her body has _never_ felt this good after sex.

Never.

The third time, it’s different.

 _He’s_ different.

Well, it starts out the same. Stumbling into it as if sex is something you can do accidentally, frantic slide of his tongue over hers, kissing her like he never wants to stop, like her mouth is the only thing that interests him in the universe. Hands she can’t keep to herself, gliding up his chest and down the muscles of his back, fingers pressing and touching to see where she can make him suck in air or bite off a quiet, _Fuck_.

But when he’s got her stripped, sweaty and reaching to pull him closer, get him inside her already, he takes her hand, pulls it gently away, and whispers, “Slow down a minute?”

“Okay,” she manages.

She doesn’t want to slow down (at all), but she blows out a breath and tries to relax against the sheets. And that’s when she feels his fingertips soft on the back of her knee, creating an unhurried path he follows with his mouth. Over the inside of her thigh, the rise of her hipbone, the ridges of her ribs, the curve of her breast (she’s barely breathing now, because _oh god_ , there aren’t even words for how good he feels), the hollow of her throat, the edge of her ear, and finally back on her mouth again, but this time soft and gentle, warmth of her lower lip in his.

And the entire time, she can _feel_ him watching her, studying every movement (not only with his eyes, but with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers), every small noise she can’t muffle, every sharp gasp she breathes in when he finds a new place where she had no idea she loved to be touched.

She’s never been with someone who wants to learn her.

It feels uncontrolled, dangerous.

But she’s not scared.

After a few more minutes of kissing her, warm and wet and frustratingly restrained, he apparently decides he’s tortured her enough. When he pushes inside her and she’s trembling with how much she wants him to move, he rubs the rise of her cheekbone and says into her mouth, “I wanna find out what you like.”

Her throat tightens at his irresistible honesty. “This,” she whispers. “You.”

3.

**He likes listening to her read.**

The prison "library" is hilariously haphazard, a weird and unpredictable collection of books in various stages of disintegration, the volumes obviously donated by people with widely divergent tastes in reading material. 

Still, reading is something Carol misses from before, and although days or even weeks sometimes pass before she finds time to pull out the bookmark and smush herself into the corner of the bunk, she's happier in the middle of a story.

Late one night, when she's just started _Wuthering Heights_ (well, she read it in tenth grade, but clearly that's been a while), Daryl slips into their cell after a long stretch on watch, a water bottle swinging from his left hand, his hair dripping from a quick cold shower. 

He looks exhausted and drained, pale even in the shitty light of the reading lamp Michonne found on a run a few weeks back. 

"Hey. Rough night?" The smile that lifts the edges of her mouth, just because he's there, feels so natural, like a thing that's been happening to her face for years (even though it's brand new).

"Nah. Just can't get rid of this fuckin' headache." He sits on the edge of the bunk and unlaces his boots, pausing to push his fingers against his temples.

"Why didn't you say something? I've got Ibuprofen right here." She drops the book on the bed and grabs for the huge duffel that holds all her things, unzipping the end pocket and rummaging until her hand closes over the smooth plastic of the pill bottle.

"Kids might need it," he mumbles, but she can tell by the way he's breathing, by the way he holds his shoulders stiff and tense, that his head hurts. A lot.

"Nobody's gonna miss four pills." She reaches for his arm, flipping his wrist over so his palm faces upwards. Dropping the medicine into his hand, she says, "Take these. _I'll_ worry about you if you won't."

Shockingly, he doesn't put up a fight, just jams the pills into his mouth, twists the top off his water bottle, and chugs at least a third of its contents. She reaches for the thin piece of cardboard that subs for a real bookmark and picks up the book she'd tossed on the bed. "Why don't you keep readin'?" he asks. The pain makes his voice lower.

"I wanna keep you company until the medicine kicks in."

"I meant-" He clears his throat and pauses, the way he does when he can't decide whether to say something or keep it to himself. "I meant . . . out loud."

"Really?"

"Why not? I skipped school the whole month when we were s'posed to be readin' _Wuthering Heights_." He tries to laugh, then winces from the movement.

She's even a little surprised that he knows what she's reading, but when she thinks about it for half a second, she realizes that's pretty stupid.

He notices everything.

"Okay." She leaves her thumb in the middle of the book and squishes back into her favorite position in the corner of the bunk. "But promise me you'll say something if you're bored or you hate it."

"Promise," he mumbles, arranging a pillow under his head and stretching his long legs until his right foot rests against the edge of her butt. He shuts his eyes.

And she reads, feeling the rhythm of the words in the quiet, pictures of moors and snow and wind, images that yank her away from the stifling heat and humidity that engulf every moment of reality, here. She watches the way Daryl's body relaxes as the medicine takes hold, his jaw no longer set and his fingers open on the cheap crappy sheets.

After an hour or so she stops, assuming he's long asleep.

But the second she leans over to grab the bookmark, he says, voice rough and gritty, "Shit. Heathcliff's a dickhead."

She smirks. "I know."

"Does he ever become less of a prick?"

She considers for a second and then says, "Not really, no. I can stop, you know?"

He smiles and shakes his head, his eyes still closed. "Hell, no. Now I wanna find out what happens."

She scoots closer to the warmth of his legs and reopens the book.

4\. 

**He's ticklish.**

And not in the funny, "That makes me laugh even though I'm yelling, so do it more" kind of way.

She discovers this by accident, early one morning when they're both awake for some reason but the bed feels so comfortable and inviting that neither of them can summon the motivation to swing their legs over the edge and get up.

After a few minutes of resting with her head tucked under his chin (he even cuddles now, sometimes, when he's sleepy and his guard is down), enjoying the way he's brushing his thumb over the nape of her neck, she grabs his side, right in the middle of his ribs, and squeezes a couple times. "I'm never gonna get up if you don't move," she teases.

"Stop," he mumbles, but she's not looking at his face and still half asleep anyway, and it isn't until later (quite a bit later) that she comprehends the importance of the signals she missed.

She does it again.

"I said _stop_!" he yells, volume of his voice triple what she's used to, particularly when he's talking to her.

And then he shoves her away from him, hard enough that her shoulder hits the cell wall. The cement stings, but it's the shock more than the impact, and she's trying to figure out what the hell just happened when he slams out of the bed and says, "Fuck. _Fuck_!"

"Daryl-"

"You alright?" He's frantically throwing on jeans and a shirt, not even buttoning up, and he won't look at her.

"Yeah, I'm fine. But what-"

"I didn't hurt you?"

"No, can you please-"

"I'm gonna see if Rick needs help waterin'."

He's out the door and five strides down the hall before she's even got her feet on the floor, but she hears him say it again, under his breath.

**Fuck.**

************

He avoids her all day.

She feels like shit, not because he hurt her (which he didn't, not really), not because she's scared (thinking about his face makes her stomach hurt -- she knows he scared _himself_ ), but because his reaction was so unexpected. No matter how many theories about his reasons spin through her overworked mind, she can't put the pieces together into something that makes sense.

She needs him to explain, but he won't even walk into the same room with her. By mid-afternoon, she gives up on trying to find him. He'll tell her when he feels like it, or he won't, and it's not something she can control.

************

She doesn't pick up _Wuthering Heights_ when she gets into bed that night, because it feels weird to keep going without him when they're already on page 217. There's a comic book Carl swore was the "best one _ever_ ", and because she tries to have some sort of idea what the kids are into, she opens it and leafs through the glossy colorful pages.

But she's not seeing anything, not making meaning out of the bubble-enclosed exclamations, because all she can think about is Daryl’s face this morning, the gravel frustration in his voice, the slam of his footsteps away from her.

After maybe forty-five minutes, she hears his boots in the hall (unmistakable, she knows his stride). He slides the door open. "Hey."

"Hey." Her heart's beating too fast, but she relaxes a touch because he's making eye contact and his body isn't all tense the way it is when he's ready to run. He tosses a bag of gear in the corner, pulls the bow off his shoulder, and sits down on the other end of the bed.

She waits. 

He squeezes his knees with his hands. She can hear him breathing.

A couple minutes crawl by, and she's close to losing the nerve to stay silent when he finally says, his words almost a whisper, "When my old man wasn't out on a bender or pickin' up whichever woman was new in town and dumb enough to fuck him, he used to wake me up in the morning by pinnin' me down and tickling me."

She swallows. _Oh, god_.

"He'd do it 'til it hurt, 'til I couldn't breathe." He squeezes his fists tight, knuckles white. "I'd beg him to stop until I couldn't get 'nough air to talk. And he'd just laugh. Keep doin' it."

She's having a little trouble with the breathing thing herself at the moment, her heart so jumpy in her chest that she pulls her legs in tighter so she has something to hold onto. And the thing is, there are a hundred things she could say, because with a few minor variations for flavor, she knows this story. Knows exactly how it feels to be powerless, to plead, to beg.

Until for whatever reason you can't even do that and then you're just silent.

She's still trying to figure out _any_ words that might not make it all worse when he says, the syllables uneven this time as he works to get them out, "I didn't stay away all day 'cause I was mad, if that's what you're thinkin'." He angles his head towards her, and the expression that flickers in his eyes makes him look as if someone has punched him in the stomach. Repeatedly. "I can't believe-" The word cracks in the middle and he clears his throat. "I never meant to shove you like that. Just reflex."

"I know." She's not sure he's ready to let her touch him, but she pushes herself out of the corner and sits beside him, pulling one of his dry rough hands into both of hers. "I _know_."

"I'm sorry. There's no way you coulda known." His fingers tighten over her palm. " _Promise_ that I didn't hurt you?"

Her throat's achy now, and talking hurts, but she leans her head on his shoulder and nods, gentle rub of his scruff on her forehead. "I promise."

5.

**He likes making things for her.**

Okay, that in itself isn't particularly surprising, given the things he's done for her since the beginning of forever, given that he almost died for Sophia, given the way the two of them have always looked to each other first, even before they finally managed to cut the crap and start sleeping together. (They've been sharing a cell for over two months and Daryl _still_ takes shit from Glenn, who never misses an opportunity to crack some joke that makes Daryl's jaw clench and that vein in his neck jump out. It's so funny that most of the time she has to chew her lip on the inside so she won't burst out laughing. He's just such an easy target, and Glenn knows it. It's like watching third grade all over again.)

It's _what_ he chooses to make her that flips her heart sideways, causes her to realize exactly how much mental energy he actually devotes to her, to all the small throwaway details and offhand comments that anybody else would miss.

He doesn't miss a thing.

For example, at some point when they're both in the tower, sitting through yet another watch where exactly nothing happens, she mentions that they used to have a cat, that she liked reading on the couch with the cat asleep on her lap. It's embedded right in the middle of a conversation that wanders all over the place, and she forgets about it in five minutes.

That is, until a week later, when she comes back to their cell after dinner to grab a clean shirt, and finds a perfect woodcarving of a mountain lion sitting on her pillow. 

She picks it up, rubbing her fingers over the smooth coolness, studying the astonishing accuracy of detail he managed to pack into something so tiny. Round shapes of muscle, slight indentations that look like the softness of fur.

She holds it for a long time, wonders how long it took him to make it.

After a second, her eyes fill with a rush of unexpected tears, because the last person who made something for her was Sophia.

It was a Christmas gift, but Sophia had chosen to give it to her right after school on their last half day before Christmas break. Carol remembers it with photographic clarity, her baby's lit up face when she got off the bus, the bursting excitement and "Mom, Mom! Mrs. Shepard let us bring home the stuff from the kiln!" Sophia had knelt down in front of her backpack, cheeks all flushed from the cramped overheated bus, her hair escaping in pieces from the ponytail Carol had tried to shape that morning. 

And she'd pulled out a teacup, uneven everywhere with identical indentations made by small fingers on malleable clay, but covered with one of the most beautiful glazes Carol had ever seen -- green and red circles with an explosion of silver glitter, like snow.

She didn't want Ed to find it, so after Sophia went to bed that night (Ed was lost in football, four beers into a six pack), she'd snuck upstairs and hidden the teacup in the small Tupperware container where she kept only the most special pieces of art Sophia made, the ones she really didn't want to have destroyed.

The day they ran from the house, that container and the cat were the only things she was genuinely sorry she couldn't take with her.

"Tried to do a regular cat."

She snaps back to the present to Daryl standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the bars. "Kinda looked like a squirrel or somethin'." He shrugs, looking at the floor and grinning a tiny bit. "I spent a lot more time looking at mountain lions when I was trackin'. Guess that worked better."

She smiles past the sting in her eyes and the ache that stretches her chest. "I love it," she says. "Thank you."

And even though he responds with, "Maggie wants to know where the smaller pack of bandages is," she knows what he's really saying is, "You're welcome."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++


End file.
